For the Sake of the Smith
by MB18932
Summary: Tyrion fails to notice Catelyn Stark on her return to Winterfell, altering the War of Five Kings and keeping Eddard's head on his shoulders. Faced with the fact that his king is a far cry from his past self, Ned vows to protect to of Roberts baseborn children, one an infant, and the other a bull-headed smith. But will this vow prove his family's undoing?
1. Chapter 1

**A.N. Here is a Christmas present for all my followers: a new story for A Song of Ice And Fire. **

**Catelyn**

"Innkeep," a servant's voice called out behind her, "we have horses that want stabling, and my lord of Lannister requires a room and a hot bath."

"Oh, gods," Ser Rodrik said before Catelyn reached out to silence him, her fingers tightening hard around his forearm. At the same time, she motioned with her other hand for him to move along the bench until they were as close to the kitchen door and as far out of the way as possible. She forced herself to look away from the Imp as he entered the room, pulling on her hood to keep as much of her face hidden as possible.

Behind her, she heard Masha Heddle greet Tyrion Lannister, trying to explain that her inn was full, that there was no room for him, but then she heard the jingle of the Imp's coin purse. Almost immediately, she heard the sound of one of the men offering up his room to him. It took all of Catelyn's self control not to turn to see who it was.

"Now there's a clever one," the Lannister crowed, his happy, cheerful attitude making her teeth grind with fury at the heinousness of his crime, a crime he had yet to answer for. "Tell me, what is your name, my good man?"

"Bronn, milord."

"…Bronn... what?"

"Just Bronn, milord."

"Ah, a sellsword," Lannister said quietly, his tone thoughtful. "Are you looking for a patron?"

"Always, milord."

Catelyn heard another coin being pulled from the Imp's purse and tossed through the air. "Well, then, you've found one. You will have to sleep in the stables with my two companions, I am afraid."

"You keep being so generous with your coin, milord, and I'll sleep wherever you like," the man named Bronn answered, and Catelyn heard two sets of footsteps walking away, the heavier set from Bronn exiting out the front door, while Tyrion Lannister could be heard climbing the wooden steps, after giving instructions to the innkeep and the musician who had accosted Catelyn and Ser Rodrik earlier, the former to send food up to his newly acquired room and the latter to please sod off. Soon after the new arrival was out of sight, the room quickly returned to normal, as the patrons returned to their food, ale, and conversations.

Immediately, Ser Rodrik turned to her and whispered, "We should take him now, my lady!"

As tempting as her knight's words were, and there were few enough things Catalyn had found to be more tempting then those words, she forced herself to grit her teeth and reply, "No, Ser Rodrik. We cannot take the Imp. Not now."

"Look around you, my lady," the knight insisted. "This inn is full of your father's sworn bannermen! At a glance, I can see the sigils of Whent, Bracken, and Frey on no less than thirty armed footmen! The Imp has a handful of servants, one sellsword, and a Sworn Brother of the Night's Watch who will more than likely proclaim neutrality. Make your presence known, proclaim your intent, and each and every one of these men will gladly help you seize the would-be murderer!"

"And THEN what, Ser Rodrik," Catelyn hissed. "And then what would we do? We are still well within the Riverlands, nowhere near Winterfell, and have no place to hold him. And Tywin Lannister would never allow such a slight against his house to go unpunished; he would declare war on my father the instant he learned that his bannermen had seized his own son. He can field nearly twice as many men as the Riverlands, and with my father bedridden, it would fall to my brother Edmure to lead, and while I love him, he is no leader of men." Shaking her head in despair, she looked the knight in the eye and said, with complete finality, "No, Ser Rodrik, seizing Tyrion Lannister now would only invite disaster."

Briefly, her companion looked as though he was about to protest, but closed his mouth, and nodded grimly. "I suppose you have the right of it, my lady," he said reluctantly, taking a sip from his tankard. "So, if we are not taking the dwarf into our custody now, what is your intention; should be leave now, and head north immediately?"

"No," she said, checking to make sure that no one was listening in on their conversation. "We cannot risk raising suspicion. We will finish our food and drink, return to our room, wait out the night, and leave just before the dawn. We have been away from Winterfell too long." Pausing, she lowered her gaze, thinking of her two youngest sons; Bran, likely still in his seemingly unending sleep from his fall, and Rickon, who was like to still be screaming out for her, and clinging to his eldest brother Robb's leg, who still a boy himself, but the closest thing to a parent that the child of three name days could find in the fortress. "_I _have been away from Winterfell too long."

Eyes softening, Ser Rodrik took her hand in his. Finally coaxing a small smile from her, Catelyn withdrew her arms and the two returned to their meal, keeping their heads low as they ate. As soon as they finished their meal, they immediately returned to their rooms with as little word to anyone as possible. After they had returned to their room, they remained there for the rest of the evening, not leaving for any reason, though she wished otherwise after using the chamber pot. That night, she slept in the bed, farthest from the doorway, on her side so that her back was to the entrance. Rodrik rolled out his bed roll on the floor, a good deal closer, with his weapons in easy reach. While it was unlikely that they would face danger from any of the current residents in the inn, let alone Tyrion Lannister, neither of them wished for a footpad to sneak in, slit their throats, and make off with their valuables.

Still, the two slept little, and what sleep they got was light, restless, and often broken. Ser Rodrik because it was his duty to serve and protect Lady Catelyn of House Stark, and every moment he closed his eyes was a moment he was not keeping watch for her, and Lady Catelyn because her son's would-be murderer slept soundly scarcely feet from her, and she could not seize him, and so her heart filled with black hatred.

It was in the hours just before dawn that the two finally made their leave, so as to alert as few people as possible. If they were caught, they could be mistaken for thieves, but Catelyn decided that was a risk they must take; she did not wish for the Imp to learn of their presence, as he would undoubtedly report his sighting to his family, and that could compromise her husband's investigation into any number of other Lannister plots, as well as Jon Arryn's death and Bran's attempted murder. And on top of that, if the Lannister did see her, and greet her in his horribly cheerful voice, as though he had done no wrong, she might very well bid her farewell to reason and bind him in chains right then.

Gathering their belongings and supplies, the two travelers crept out of their rooms and down the stairs as quietly as possible, leaving a few coins at the inkeep's till for their early departure. Entering the stables, they quickly saddled their horses, being as quiet as possible to avoid waking the Imp's servants and sellsword, who were snoring loudly nearby. Finally, all preparations were finished, and they lead their steeds out of the stables, mounted them, and were swiftly on their way.

They kept riding from the time they started to dusk, stopping only to eat and when they needed to relieve themselves. Throughout the morning they pushed the horses at speeds approaching a gallop, slowing only whenever they saw other riders or travelers on foot; Catelyn wanted to put as much space between herself and Tyrion Lannister as possible. After their noon meal, which consisted of little more than some bread and water from their skins, they slowed their pace somewhat. Finally, as evening fell, they reached a second inn, smaller than the last, but still having a room to spare. Sadly, they had missed the evening meal, and were left again with what they had brought with them.

After settling into their new quarters and eating their rather poor meal, this time with no unexpected Lannisters in sight, Catelyn asked Ser Rodrik, "How long shall our return to Winterfell be?"

Taking a moment to think over his answer, Rodrik leaned his back against the wall, and answered. "From here, I believe it would take approximately two weeks to reach Moat Cailan, my lady, and another two to reach Winterfell."

Catelyn groaned at the distance they had yet to cover. "If only we did not need to sleep or rest our steeds, and could ride at all hours of the day and night. We could cover the distance in half the time."

oo-00-oo

**Eddard**

Eddard Stark, former Hand of the King, awoke in his bed, and was almost immediately he was in motion. Quickly, he pulled on his cloths and boots and on top of that a set of leather and chain-mail armor, and at the same time gave out orders to the guards outside his room to rouse his daughters. He was taking no chances; it had been barely a day since he had resigned as Hand of the King, and Robert had declared him a dead man; it was difficult to find leeway in "I swear, I'll have your head on a spike."

Thus, he was not taking any chances with his life or that of his daughters. Yesterday, before "Littlefinger" Bealish had brought him to his whorehouse to meet with the young girl who had born Robert's youngest bastard child, he had arranged for Sansa, Arya, himself, and a small group of his personal guard transport back to the North by sea immediately. He had received protests from both of his daughters, but Ned had quickly overridden them. Their safety was his first priority, and it was clear to him that King's Landing was no longer even remotely safe for them. His investigation into Jon Arryn's death, as well as the King's illegitimate children, had certainly incurred the ire of whatever force he was in search of, and with the loss of Robert's favor, one of his greatest shields against retaliation was gone.

Taking the stairs down the Tower of the Hand, he was quickly flanked by his chosen guards, Arya, Sansa, their Septa, and Syrio Forel, Arya's "dancing master." When he had asked the Braavosi if he wished to continue with the contract he had taken with him, Ned had been almost certain that he would refuse; why would anyone at King's Landing want to leave everything they had known behind in order to travel hundreds of miles to Winterfell, in a land so different culturally it may as well have been an entirely different world, and where it could snow in the middle of summer? He had been surprised, therefore, when the water dancer agreed to follow him back to the North immediately.

"You have charged this man to teach your daughter to be a water dancer," Syrio had told him when he asked why he had chosen to travel with them, "and the First Sword of Braavos does not leave tasks unfinished."

Unfortunately, this had the unintended consequence of driving further ire between his two daughters. Sansa had been purple with rage when she had found out, shrieking about the fact that her distinctly unladylike younger sister got to keep her instructor, but she had to give up everything she had in the city. He knew that he would have to redouble his efforts to get his daughters to behave in a civil manner towards each other. Again.

However, as their group reached the final chamber of the Tower of the Hand, he was faced with Jory Cassel, the captain of his personal guard, and the expression indicated that things were not well. "My Lord," he said, bowing slightly. "His Grace, King Robert is without. He is demanding we allow him within the tower, so that he can have words with you."

Ned felt the blood drain from his face. He had thought that he would have more time to evacuate his family before Robert could be roused from the Red Keep to direct his anger at him directly, that the king would be too deep in his fury to take such action so swiftly. Instinctively, he tensed, preparing for whatever Robert intended to do.

"How many men are with him," he asked Jory.

"Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jaime Lannister," the captain replied, "along with a dozen gold cloaks."

Ned remained taunt with anticipation, but inwardly he relaxed somewhat. His personal guard outnumbered Robert's party by a huge margin, and while Selmy and the Kingslayer were two of the most formidable swordsmen in Westeros, he was confident that, if it came to bloodshed, they would be overwhelmed. Loosening Ice from its sheath, he nodded, and said, "See his Grace in."

Bowing his head, Jory turned and marched back to the entrance to the Hand's Tower, four more of the Stark retinue flanking him. Within a few moments, he heard heavy footsteps, and Cassel and his men returned, with King Robert and his white cloaked guards in tow.

Ever disdainful of proper procedure and established courtesies between royalty and lords, Robert immediately began blustering in his usual boisterous manner.

"Seven hells, Ned, just what do you think you're DOING!"

"I am returning my family and myself to Winterfell, your Grace," Eddard answered, his voice polite, yet so formal and cold it could have passed as ice. "As you bid me to do. Unless you have come to administer the death sentence you passed on me after the last meeting of the Small Council."

Robert rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "Come now, Ned! You don't really think that would every do such a thing to you, do you?"

"Given what you have ordered done a mere day ago, Robert, I would not think you incapable of anything."

"Oh Gods, Ned," the monarch swore, apparently already out of patience, which he had in very little supply to start with. "Don't start with this again." Gesturing vaguely to a nearby doorway, he continued, "Let's take this elsewhere, Ned; I'd like to do this in private." Ned held his gaze for a full minute before nodding his assent, and he and the king left through the doorway. He was vaguely aware of Jaime Lannister and Barristan Selmy taking up positions at either side of the doorframe, and Jory Cassel arranging his own retainers in a semi-circle around them, ready to come to his aid if need be.

The room the king had chosen was the small chamber that Vayon Poole, his personal steward, used to manage the Hand's personal finances. Within was a single table, with two chairs opposite each other, with several shelves meant to house the ledgers and sums of Ned's party, but with the hast of his current attempt to leave the capital, the shelves were empty, and the table bare. Robert sat farthest from the doorway, the chair groaning the king settled his immense girth onto it. The former Hand took the seat opposite him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Baratheon and Stark sat stock still, trying to stare the other down over the table. Robert bearded face gave of waves of incensed rage, indignity, and hurt. Ned's, by contrast, was cold and calm, but if one looked him in his eyes, he would see that his anger was no less strong than the king's, and was mixed with disgust, and disappointment.

Finally, after a tense moment that seemed to last hours, Robert reached into a pocket on his person, and pulled out a silver clasp. As he held it out in the palm of his hand, Eddard recognized it; it was the clasp that identified the bearer as the Hand of the King.

"Put the damn thing back on, Ned," Robert demanded.

Eddard turned his gaze upward to meet the king's.

"No."

"Take this godsdamned badge and put it on, Ned," Robert demanded again, his face beginning to turn red with anger. "That is a direct command from your king."

"I will not," Eddard said. "As I told you before, I will not fix my seal on an order to have innocent children murdered, nor will I serve as Hand to a king that would have not only condone such an atrocity, but order it done, and without even the decency or willingness to do the deed himself."

"Seven hells," Robert groaned, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. "This about Rheagar's brats again, isn't it? That was nearly sixteen years ago, damn it all; when are you going to let that go?"

"I was more focused on his still living brother and sister, your Grace," Eddard answered. "But thank you for reminding me of that crime; I had such focus on this new atrocity you have planned that the old had slipped my mind. And as for when I shall 'let it go', as you so eloquently put it, I shall do so as soon as those responsible for their murders receive the justice due to them."

"Damn it, Ned, for the last time," Robert began, preparing for a long-winded tirade on this touchy subject. "What the Lannisters did was-". Just as abruptly as he began, the king stopped, shook his head, and then muttered, "No. No, I am not going to have this conversation with you again, Ned. We have danced this jig many times before, I know it by heart now. Both of us will give the same opinions, the same arguments, the same counter-arguments, neither of us will back down from our stance on the matter, and the only thing that will be accomplished is that we will have wasted both of our time and become needlessly furious with each other. Now please, take the badge, and put in on your chest, and if you ever take it off again, I swear to you, I'll pin the damn thing on Jaime Lannister."

Eddard's eyes went wide, and for the first time real heat entered his voice. "You would name that honorless oathbreaker Warden of the East _and_ Hand of the King? The same man who killed the last king he swore to serve, and who is also the eldest son of the Warden of the West? You would give control of half your kingdom and the power of your own voice to a single house that has shown that it will do even the most base and despicable of acts to reach for even more power and glory? Have you no brains at all, Robert Baratheon? You may as well take off your crown and give it to Tywin Lannister now; it would save the both of you a great deal of time and trouble."

If almost any other man had said those words, or if Eddard had said them to a different king, he would have faced dire consequences for such an outburst. Robert however, mearly smirked, pleased to have finally gotten an emotional reaction from his usually dour friend. "Well, Ned, if you are so concerned about the Lannisters grabbing for power, there is a very simple way for you to prevent it from happening," he said, lifting up the Hand's clasp.

_So that is what he is playing at, _Eddard thought darkly. Robert was playing with his fear that the Lannisters would swindle power away from the Iron Throne, if not usurp it outright, to keep him the position as Hand, and even as he realized this, he also knew that it would work. As much as he detested what Robert had become, and what he was planning to do, he would never allow a usurper to plunge the realm into war for something to which he had no right. Finally, slowly, he reached out and took the clasp from the king's hand, holding it as if it were a piece of filth.

"There," Robert said, satisfaction evident on his face. "That wasn't so hard, was it Ned?" Stark offered no response, apart from staring at the pin with undisguised loathing. After waiting for a few minutes, and receiving no response, he huffed, and lifted himself out of the chair. "Well, if you have nothing else to say, Ned, I be on my way; I have a expedition to finish planning."

"What for?" Eddard asked, lifting his gaze back to the king, but his tone indicated complete disinterest.

"For the hunting trip," Robert clarified. "I'll be spending some weeks in the Kingswood."

By this point, Eddard Stark was beyond being angered by Robert's actions. "You put your seal on an order to murder a girl and her unborn child, and now you go hunting as though nothing is amiss?"

"Killing things clears my head," the King said, anger evident in his voice. "And right now my head needs clearing. If you learned that a Dothraki horde may be poised to invade your kingdom, you would need to clear your head as well."

"In that case, perhaps you should travel to the Dothraki Sea, and hunt for Targareans," Eddard said, voice scathing. "I've heard that the Small Council is offering a lordship for every hide."

Snorting, Robert opened the door, saying nothing, and left the chamber. As he crossed the threshold, the Kingsguard members who had accompanied him immediately fell in behind him, the Stark guards moving to the side to give room.

For several minutes, Eddard remained still. Finally, slowly, he lifted himself out of the chair and to his feet, and exited the room himself.

"Jory Cassel," he said, calling the captain's attention back to him. "The King has reinstated me as Hand of the King, and bid me to remain in King's Landing. Please spread word to the rest of my household staff that we will be remaining in the capital, and that they should cease all efforts to return the household to Winterfell. Also, send a message to the captain of the vessel I had planned to take informing him of this development, as well as a personal apology on my behalf; he may keep the coin paid to him for his trouble."

"You mean… we're staying," Sansa asked, her face beginning to light up with hope, ignorant of what was being done, and the try nature of this city and its leaders. Beside her, Arya also had the same expression, though it was not as strong.

Looking at his daughters, Eddard managed to force a small smile, which he hoped was convincing, and said, "Yes, my children; we are staying." Immediately, he was inundated with his daughters' hugs and squealing joy, thanking him profusely, running back to their rooms to unpack their belongings again, their incensed septa chasing after them, trying to rein them in. Just as quickly, his guards and other servants went about their tasks, and soon, Lord Stark was the only person left in the room.

Eddard sighed, and let his shoulders sag in depressed resignation. Lifting up his arm, he once again looked at the Hand's pin.

_Robert, _he thought, grief flooding threw him that extinguished any other emotion, even his immense fury. _My friend, my brother… how could you have allowed this to happen? Do you not remember the man you were nearly two decades ago? You inspired half a continent to overthrow a three hundred year old dynasty. Where has that man gone? And how did he ever allow this shadow, this snake, to steal away his life and accomplishments, then endlessly destroy and make a mockery of all of it?_

As he thought these words, Eddard realized his mission, to protect his friend Robert Baratheon, had failed before it had even begun. The Robert that had just coerced him into remaining in the Capital was not the friend he had known for so long. Catelyn's words from before he had left Winterfell entered his mind; _You knew the man. The King is a stranger to you._

So his wife had said, and so it was. This king, this man of vile acts, was not a man he wished to serve. It was one of the hardest things he had ever had to accept, but now that he had, he could not look at Robert in any other light. Eddard knew this feeling; this was exactly how he had felt toward Robert after he had refused to punish the Lannister's crimes in King's Landing at the end of his rebellion, the murder of Rhaegar's children and wife, the sack of the city and the slaughtered smallfolk, and, the greatest crime in his eyes, Jaime Lannister's betrayal of the king he swore to lay down his life to defend. And now Robert was not merely preventing justice from being done for such crimes, but ordering them done himself. And now he expected Eddard to serve as his Hand, ruling the kingdom for him as went off doing as he pleased.

_Well, very well then, _he thought, rage entering his thoughts again. He would rule as Hand, and he would serve the throne as he always had. He would also keep watch over the king's two bastard children in the city, out of respect for his friend who had clearly already died, and his son when he came into the throne. But he would no longer concern himself with the man who sat upon it now. Let the bootlickers and power mongers swindle Robert out hearth and home and influence. He was unworthy of it anyway.

Slowly, deliberately, Ned fixed the pin to his breast again.

He would be Robert's Hand. And nothing else.

**A.N. **

**I am aware of George R.R. Martin's opinion on fan fiction, and if I receive word from him, I will remove it from the site as soon as I figure out how to do so. (Although, I am of the opinion that he who writes of Red Weddings has forfeited the right to complain about such things. That might just be me, though.) However, I will say that learning about his opinion on fan fiction WAS an enlightening experience for me; up until now, the only author whose opinion on the matter was clear to me was Christopher Paolini, author of the Inheritance Cycle, and he loves this stuff. He even liked the god-awful movie they made simply because they changed things from his books!**

**I really hope that I got the characters down correctly, especially with Ned. If you see anything glaringly OOC, please let me know, so I can avoid doing the same things in the future. **

**Have a merry Christmas, and a happy new year!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Tyrion**

Tyrion Lannister huffed in displeasure as King's Landing came into view, after slightly more than three weeks of sleeping in the inns of the Riverlands. He had always hated the capital city of Westeros. The Red Keep and the great Sept of Bealor were awe-inspiring to look on, yes, and the whorehouses on the Street of Silk he was always more than pleased with, but these were a few bright spots on a sheet so black it might well be coated in coal dust. The paved roads of the city were as twisted and stunted as he himself was, the buildings and homes within the walls had been constructed haphazardly and without logic, even more ramshackle huts and warehouses had been slapped together outside the main wall and often leaned against it, and even from this distance he could he could smell the miasma that hovered over all cities, though none were as strong as the capital's. In his opinion anyway.

As he thought this, his companions moved up and stopped alongside him, reacting in different ways to city before them. Yoren, the man of the Night's Watch, didn't seem to show any feelings at all; he had told Tyrion on their journey that he returned to the capital each and every year to collect potential recruits for his order; the prisons of the city and the Red Keep were always filled with criminals, desperate for any chance to survive, even on the Wall in the frozen North, so he always had plenty of recruits, along with all of the urchins that would come to cling to him, hoping for a meal and a place to sleep.

Tyrion's servants, though, shared his barely veiled distaste for the city, though they quickly tried to hide their displeasure. As they were employed by House Lannister, Tyrion's followers were used to more refined aspects of life, and the sudden cringe-inducing smell of human shit and sweat, with the site of a city that looked to be designed by someone who had heard of proper placement of buildings but had not fully understood the concept, hardly counted as "refined".

Bronn, his newly employed sellsword, merely cocked an eyebrown, his face showing confusion and perhaps disappointment, which Tyrion could not blame him for feeling. Turning his gaze to the resident Lannister, Bronn asked, "This is King's Landing, huh?"

"Indeed," he replied, his tone resigned to the painful truth. "This is the seat of power in Westeros, home of Red Keep, and where the king sits on the Iron Throne."

Snorting, Bronn looked over the city once more, and said, "Well, it could be worse, I suppose. There could be no whores." He made a move to spur his horse forward, but then stopped and shot Tyrion a worried glance. "There ARE whores in that shit pile, right?"

"If there were not, I would never come within a hundred leagues of this place," Tyrion answered, his words sounding like a jest, but his tone deadly serious. "Come, let us go the Red Keep; I need to show courtesy to the king and his hand, as well as call on my sister and her three children." And with that, he urged his horse onward.

_Well, two children and one oversized rat, _he thought darkly. Tommen and Marcella were two of the sweetest, well-behaved children he knew, and was completely confident that they would grow to be a good man and woman respectively. But Joffery? There was hardly a day that went by that Tyrion did not wish to the Seven that his sister's first pregnancy had not miscarried, so that that arrogant, craven, cruel piece of filth did not get his ass on the Iron Throne. He was insufferable enough now that he was the heir apparent; when he became king, Tyrion knew that he would only become worse. Things would already be quite shaky when the succession did take place, if and when Robert left this world; it was the first time the Iron Throne changed hands for a house other than the Targareans, and it would be remiss of him to think that other houses would not try to seize the crown for themselves. The last thing they needed was his nephew making things needlessly worse with his own foolish actions.

Of course, if his sister hadn't miscarried, and had born a son, than it would have been that child that Cersie would have spoiled endlessly, and Joffery would have been relegated to the background with his younger sister and brother, and may have become as well behaved as they. And the kingdom would still be in the exact same situation it was now.

It took them over an hour before they managed to enter the city through one of the many gates, and then they still had to make it through the city itself, an incomprehensible labyrinth of roads, homes, shops, huts, and bridges. The only distinct landmarks that one could use to guide themselves were the Sept and the Keep, and they were far apart. Tyrion knew that it would be easy to become lost and confused in this city. Fortunately, because of his status, the gold cloaks of the city had provided him with an escort to guide him to his destination.

Now that they were amongst the city itself, the stench was near overpowering. It made him want to stop his horse, dismount, lay down on the ground and die simply so that he would not have to smell the foul air any longer.

_Perhaps I could go to Robert and ask him to put me in charge of city's cisterns and sewers. I did well enough when my lord father bid me do the same for Casterly Rock, _Tyrion thought in jest. However, as they made their way through the city, and spent longer and longer breathing in the miasma, the less and less he thought of his mental statement as a jest; he was beginning to seriously consider making the request, feeling a moral obligation to rid the world of this stink.

A few hours, and far more upset stomachs, later, his group at last reached the gates, lowered drawbridge, and relatively fresh air of the Red Keep, the colors of house Baratheon, a black crowned stag on a yellow field, flying on every battlement and tower. Personally, Tyrion thought the display a tad excessive, but from what he had heard, it had been exactly the same when the Targareans had ruled, and he would much rather have the rather pleasant looking stags coating the castle than the blood red, fire-spewing, three-headed dragon on pitch black that was the last dynasty's symbol.

After entering the Keep, Tyrion and his companions dismounted, stable grooms coming up and leading their steeds to their stalls. At the same time, several pages led the group into the castle itself, towards the throne room. Along the way, he was informed that Robert was out hunting in the Kingswood, a favorite pastime of his, and that left the King's Hand in charge of the capital. For the nuance, Eddard Stark was the King of Westeros, in fact if not in name.

It took a surprising amount of time to traverse through the keep, and they had arrived in the city while court was being held, so by the time Tyrion and his company reached the throne room, the session was very nearly over. Entering through a side door, as quietly as possible, he overheard the bickering of two modestly wealthy Crownlander landholders bickering over a disputed patch of farmland. The argument was so intense that no one seemed to notice their entrance, and they took their place at the far end of those who had gathered to watch Lord Stark dispense justice. Standing straight, he, his servants, and his other companions watched as the two minor lords fight began to escalate in intensity and volume, until they were shrieking barely coherent insults at each other.

"ENOUGH!"

The voice that silenced the arguing land owners, and kept them silent, startled Tyrion so much he nearly jumped out of his skin. Immediately, he looked to where the shout had originated from, the Iron Throne, and gulped.

He had always thought that his lord father, Tywin Lannister, was the most commanding and intimidating lord in all of Westeros. That belief was now being put to the test as he looked upon Eddard Stark's visage. The northman was astride the Iron Throne in perfect posture, his back and head straight and without touching the many barbs curling out of the back of the throne, his arms and fingers placed at the perfect spots to avoid cutting himself on the blades that made up the arm rests. Then there was the man himself. He was not dressed opulently, but that only made him all the more intimidating; he wore a simple tunic and breaches, well made and colored ice-white, with his house's sigil, the grey direwolf, sewed upon his chest, and an ice-white cloak, trimmed with grey fur, on his shoulders. His beard was trimmed and well-kept, as was his hair, and his face seemed relatively impassive. But looking in the man's eyes, Tyrion saw fire swirling within the king's Hand's grey eyes.

He knew that Cersei had raged at Robert for making Eddard Stark his hand instead of their father; she claimed that Tywin was the only man capable of holding the position, and as much as Tyrion and his sister had fought over the years, he had been inclined to agree with her. Now, he saw that he was much mistaken; the lord Robert had chosen as his hand was more than capable of his task.

Years ago, just after Robert's Rebellion had ended, Jaime had told him about how Eddard Stark had entered this very room and found Jaime sitting on the Iron Throne and made him yield it up. His brother had thought the northmen meant to climb the steps and sit the throne himself, and declare himself king, and had been quite surprised when he hadn't. Tyrion briefly wondered how the Seven Kingdoms would have reacted to having a descendant of the old Kings of Winter ruling from King's Landing.

Finally drawn out of his musings, he noticed that lord Stark had finished with the two land owners; apparently, before the two had begun arguing incessantly, one had presented the Hand with a deed that would grant him control of the disputed territory. While the fighting had escalated, Grand Measter Pycelle had examined the deed, and found it to be a forgery. Upon hearing this news, the Hand called for the arrest of the deceptive landlord, and declared that the contested farm land unquestionably belonged to its original owner. The later thanked Lord Stark as the former was lead away by two goldcloaks, cursing and spitting and proclaiming that all northmen were of dubious parentage.

If Eddard Stark held ire for these words, he did not show it.

"Is there any other business that would be brought to receive the King's Justice?" came Stark's voice again, his grey eyes scanning those assembled in the court. It was clear to Tyrion that he did not expect anyone to come forward; this was, after all, the tail end of the session. It seemed, though, that he would be in for a bit of a shock.

"I do, my Lord Hand," Yoren's voice proclaimed, stepping forward to make his presence known.

Turning his head to the Sworn Brother, Lord Stark raised his eyebrows in surprise, and beckoned Yoren to come forward. The Sworn Brother left Tyrion's side, and stepped out before the Iron Throne, bowing once he was directly in front of bladed monstrosity. "Yoren," the Hand greeted. "It is a great pleasure to see you again. I trust that my eldest son, Robb, provided for you on your travels from the Wall?"

"He did indeed, my Lord Hand," Yoren answered. "My companions and I could not have asked for a better host."

_Oh, we most certainly could have, _Tyrion very nearly shouted, recent memories of a boy only no older than fifteen, if that, with a naked sword laid across his knees, and a look on his face that told Tyrion he was about to cut his head off, or sic his pet direwolf on him, which by now towered over the Lannister dwarf, coming immediately to mind. _The average hornet nest would feel more welcoming, I imagine._

Aside from his own internal ramblings, nothing of great note occurred throughout the rest of Yoren's session with the King's Hand. The two acquaintances spoke some on Yoren's trip south from the wall, including the apparent recovery of his second son, Bran; Eddard would have already received a raven on the matter, some weeks past, but it brought obvious relief the Hand to hear of Bran's improved health from someone who had seen him firsthand. After these personal discussions ended, Yoren requested permission from Lord Stark to scour the dungeons of the Red Keep for those willing to take the black, as well as any free men willing to do so. Given Winterfell's strong ties with the Wall, it came as no surprise to anyone that his request was granted.

With this session complete, the court was dismissed, and all the nobles and petitioners began filing out of the throne room, followed by the members of the small council, and then most of the guards. The few that remained included the handful of guards wearing the garb of Northmen, making them part of the Hand's personal guardsmen, the Hand himself, Tyiron and his companions minus Yoren.

It was only once all those who intended to leave had done so that Eddard Stark deigned to acknowledge the presence of the Lord Lannister, turning his head slightly to the left, looking down from the immense chair of blades.

"The court session has come to a close, Lord Tyrion Lannister," he said, his voice commanding and intimidating, and somehow managed to echo powerfully throughout the chamber, despite being barely more than a whisper. "I am afraid that if you have a matter to bring to the king's justice, it shall have to wait until the nest court session is called."

For a brief moment, Tyrion felt like he was a small child again, just done some foolish deed that would earn him a scolding from his lord father. Mentally, he shook himself like a dog, trying to cast off the feeling.

"I have nothing to bring forward, my Lord Hand," he said, giving what he hoped was a confident grin. "I am just here to pay homage to our King, and to call upon my sweet sister and her royal children." Cocking his head to the side, he continued glibly, "It would seem, however, that the King is not present. Has he abdicated the throne to you? Or is his Grace out cuckolding my sister; I have heard he considers it customary to do so seven times a day."

Beside him, Bronn barked a laugh, but Eddard Stark apparently took no amusement whatsoever. Standing from the undoubtedly hideously uncomfortable throne, he began to walk down the stairs leading to the seat. Like the throne itself, the steps were forged from the blades of Aegon the Conqueror's fallen foes, something that meant certain death if even a single misstep was taken. Fortunately, the King's Hand seemed perfectly capable of descending to the stone floor without even a glance at his traitorous footing.

"His Grace is in the Kingswood, leading a hunting expedition," he explained as he reached the floor of the throne room, still not meeting Tyrion's gaze. "As his Hand, I sit on the Iron Throne and dispense justice in His Grace's absence."

Tyrion's eyes narrowed, suddenly noticing a quirk in the Stark's behavior. He had been present at Winterfell when the King travelled north to make Eddard Stark his Hand, and had seen how the two interacted. They both referred to each other by name, in public no less, and both held warm tones when doing so. Now, the Hand did not even speak his oldest friend's name, and his voice was stiff, unwelcoming, and cold. Had something happened with the two old friends to drive ire between them? He decided to find out.

"You do not sound very pleased with our ruler at the moment, Lord Stark," he said, doing his best to sound jovial, which by now was second nature to him. "What did he attempt to do? Spike your water with Arbor gold? Plan an invasion of the Free Cities or the Summer Islands? Try to slip a few whores into your bed," he finished with a smirk.

That at least got Eddard to look him full in the face, which was something he quickly wished he had not done; if looks could kill a man, Tyrion Lannister would have been reduced to ash by the Hand's stare.

"His Grace and I have had a disagreement on a matter of significance to the realm," he said, voice quite and formal. "It is a disagreement we have yet to resolve. However, it is a matter of great sensitivity, so I am afraid I am unable to speak of it to anyone outside of the small council."

Warning bells began sounding in Tyrion's mind. _He is not simply displeased with Robert, _he thought. _He is furious with him. The King has ordered something done that Eddard Stark refuses to agree with or support. The last time that happened was when Robert refused to punish Jaime and my father for their actions at the end of their rebellion that put Robert on the throne. What could the King have done to anger his friend as much now as he had then?_

Whatever the answer was, Tyrion decided it was best if he had as little to do with it as possible, lest it blow up in his own face.

"Very well then," he said, raising his hands in surrender to the Hand's rebuttal. "Still, I think it only right that I remain in the capital long enough to greet his Grace upon his return. I trust that I can expect lodging in the Keep?"

"I will see that arrangements are made." With that, Lord Stark turned and began walking out of the throne room, his guardsmen falling into line behind him. Unsure of what to do next, Tyrion stood by and watched until the Hand of the King and his entourage had left, before leaving through the opposite door, looking for his sister and her children.

He did not need to look for long, though it took a reasonable amount of time to get there. The Red Keep's solar was quite high up in the castle, and his stunted legs were not well suited to climbing the seemingly endless stairways up to his extended family. Finally, after ascending the numerous stairs, with more than his fair share of rests to try and restore feeling to his legs, Tyrion finally managed to reach his destination, which no small part of him was not all that eager to actually arrive at. Fortunately, his initial greeting was far more pleasant than he had anticipated, as he was quickly swamped by hugs and squeals of "Uncle Tyrion!" from his niece and youngest nephew.

"Look at you two," he crowed, now all smiles, thoughts of Kings and Hands and hidden plots forgotten as he looked on the two innocent children in front of him. Looking to Myrcella, he said, "My dear niece, you grow more beautiful by the day." That got a smile and a blush from the girl, and he moved on to his other young relative. "And Tommen! It has only been a handful of moons, and yet you already seem taller. You are going to be bigger than the Hound." Pausing for a moment, he leaned forward and whispered, "But much better looking." This got a nervous chuckle out of Tommen.

Then, just as Tyrion was beginning to think that this visit would not be so terrible as he had imagined, the Crown Prince himself came into view. The perpetual smirk that adorned his face transformed into a disdainful sneer as he approached his uncle.

"Imp," his eldest nephew spat.

"Greetings, Joffrey," he replied, sounding a good deal more polite but mentally adding a series of insults of which 'dung heap' was probably the most polite. Seeing Cersei rising from her own seat, with an expression of even greater disgust then her eldest son's, if that was possible, he continued, "and you as well, sweet sister. If only my goodbrother was here; then the entire happy royal family would be together."

Judging by the look Cersei was giving him, she was attempting to make him spontaneously combust for that jest.

"It isn't fair!" Joffrey suddenly shouted, his fat lips twisting into a massive pout. "Why can't I go hunting with father?"

"Joffrey, we have been over this many times," the queen said. "You are not old enough to hunt boar."

"I am so old enough! I could kill a boar if I wanted to!"

"Indeed you could, nephew"_, _Tyrion said. _I imagine it would quite easy for you as well. All you needed to do is walk up to one, and tell it that you will be king on the Iron Throne. The beast will laugh so hard and for so long that its heart will give out. _

Mother and son continued sniping at each other for several minutes, while Tyrion, Myrcella, and Tommen did their best to pretend to be somewhere else. Finally, Cersei put her foot down and ordered Joffrey to go to his lessons with Grand Measter Pycelle, along with his brother and sister. Finally, Tyrion and Cersei were left alone, which, knowing his sister's feelings for him, made him fell extremely ill at ease.

"I hope for your sake that you are not seriously suggesting that my son should go out to the Kingswood with the drunken oath who sired him and risk his life running after oversized hogs," she hissed, venom flowing liberally on her words.

"Of course not, dear sister," Tyrion replied glibly. "I would never run the risk of inflicting so rotten a meal as your son on innocent boars; they might be sick."

_**SLAP!**_


End file.
